


seafood

by fishysama



Series: goretober 2020!!! [22]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Play, Cooking, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Eye Sex, Eye Trauma, Face-Fucking, Fucked Up, Gore, Goretober, Goretober 2020, Gorn, Guro, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, M/M, Out of Character, Premature Ejaculation, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence, Skull Fucking, Violence, Will Graham is a Cannibal, anatomy isn't real shhhhh, ig?, ig??, im a comedian 😃, literally 😃, lmaoo, naomi whenever you reread this retagggg, the brain is located in the balls, this is an essential tag that i didn't know existed! great, 💀💀💀 this is scuffed beyond repair i refuse to add anymore tags to this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27200456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishysama/pseuds/fishysama
Summary: goretober day 22: extra eyesthere are better ways to thicken stew.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: goretober 2020!!! [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950796
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	seafood

**Author's Note:**

> potentially the same universe as [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27096991)? i've just been infatuated with this setup lately so sorry if ur seeing a lot of it lol
> 
> also adoring !!!!! the idea of walking in during a murder.. sorry for so much of that too lol
> 
> anyway i hope you like this revolting disaster porn like comment and subscribe?

Hannibal opens the freshly-knocked door to see Will, nervously shifting in his typical wool sweater over flannel shirt. Hannibal smiles, moving out of the way to allow Will entrance. “Come in.”

Will looks up bitterly and does so, removing his overcoat as he steps through the door. “Pleasure to see you,” he responds with a bite of sarcasm.

“To you as well,” Hannibal says, without one.

Since the discovery, this has become routine. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Yet, “enemy” is a strong word. A better descriptor would perhaps be friends living on different moral and legal planes, blackmail and threatening agreements keeping them together and alive (was that not, in a sense, love at its darkest state?). Hannibal could kill Will at any moment but instead treats him like a prince, partially to further conceal his identity from the outside eye. Will could turn Hannibal in at any moment, but instead keeps his identity hidden for the therapy, something without which he would be unable to catch other killers, ones he has no influence over whatsoever.

They have their own specialized ways of keeping each other in check as well: Will blatantly recording incriminating conversations and Hannibal forcing Will to these lavish and occasionally human-based private soirées, frequently including him on the menu (blood sausage was becoming one of Hannibal’s favorite meals).

“What are you making tonight?” Will walks straight to the kitchen, hoping to get the shock of seeing a whole human leg generously coated in spice rub over and done with.

“Oyster stew. I was feeling seafood tonight.”

Will audible sighs relief.  _ A legal dinner, then. _ But, the way Hannibal looks at him. Will swallows, rolling his neck. “...Have you started cooking?”

As if he were waiting for Will to ask that, Hannibal smiles. “No. I’m missing an ingredient.”

Something drops in Will’s stomach. He no longer craves a hearty bowl of New England comfort. Hannibal was practically forcing eye contact on him, despite Will’s strong opposition. He has a dirty thought about the ingredient and flushes, hitting his leg. And then, a dirty thought in a different way.

“Did you know that the eyes of fish are typically used for thickening soups and sauces in Asian cultures?” Hannibal says casually, invading the cutlery drawer. He selects a grapefruit spoon that has never touched a grapefruit before. “It’s a shame they ran out of head-on fish at the market.”

“Quite a shame. Guess we’ll have to deal with thin stew.” Will brushes off the threat in that statement, walking to the bowl of raw oysters. They’re uncleaned. “Or, you know, we could add cornstarch or boil it off or something normal people do—”

Will feels Hannibal’s breath on the back of his neck. He swallows.

“Will,” Hannibal says sternly, grabbing his wrist. Pressing Will between himself and the countertop. “I haven’t given you a warning in a while.”

A shiver goes down Will’s spine.  _ Warning. _ “We-We had black pudding a week ago.”

“And you suggested that the Chesapeake Ripper was European two days ago. You know the details of our arrangement.” Hannibal exaggerates hurt as if there were the slightest risk of him getting caught. “That was quite rude of you.”

Will curses under his breath, struggling against Hannibal’s grip. The grapefruit spoon in his other hand. The oyster knife on the countertop. “I meant it as a descent pattern. As in caucasian.”

“You didn’t say ‘caucasian.’”

Frustrated, Will spits, “I’m not trying to get you caught, Doctor Lecter. Is it that difficult to trust that I’m on your side?” He flushes slightly with this.

“Why should I trust you when you do not trust me?”

That was fair. Will juts his head to the side, giving the man a look. “Do you think we could have retained this relationship for this long without an inkling of trust?”

Hannibal, despite being pleased with the response, deflects it: “Still, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m missing an ingredient.”

He grinds on his lip, realizing that there’s no bargaining with the devil. “If you told me, I could have caught you a fish, you know.”

“I know.” He releases Will, gesturing towards the tawny armchair in the opposite corner of the room, “Take a seat, Will.”

Will considers reaching behind him. Oyster knife. His feet take him to the corner.

Hannibal walks behind him, mirroring his every step like an owner walking a dog. When Will sits, expecting the worst, Hannibal gently suggests, “Would you like a sedative?”

“Please.” And Hannibal leaves Will there, alone. The easy opportunity to escape only grounds him in the chair deeper. This was proof of trust in the relationship, he supposes. Trust that only benefits one party.

As he walks away, Hannibal chatters, “You can say the Chesapeake Ripper took your eye as a warning. You didn’t get a good sight of him because,” Hannibal pauses to chuckle, although he’s not a man to laugh at his own jokes, “You were losing your sight.”

Will laughs sadly, continually growing more aware of the misery (and secret excitement) of this situation. It wasn’t a lie.

Hannibal returns with a syringe that looks empty, medical gloves, and antiseptic on a cotton swab. “I don’t want you to fall asleep, of course, but this will take the edge off.” Hannibal kneels by the chair: a submissive position for a dominant action. “Roll up your sleeve.”

Will does. Flinches as he feels the cool disinfectant on his inner elbow, the slight pinch. The hazy wave that followed, consuming his brain in a pleasant fog.

“Give that a moment,” Hannibal grins as he sees Will’s eyes grow half-lidded and misty. Tempting. He clears his throat and turns, discarding the medical equipment on the preparation table. He takes a decorative ceramic bowl from the cupboard, humming as he spins the serrated spoon between his fingers. “I’ll make it quick; don’t worry. I think a prosthetic eye would suit you.” It was half a joke.

Will still is conscious enough to grimace at that last remark, to grip the armrest as Hannibal’s fingers peel his eyelids back. To feel the spoon’s teeth brush by his left tear duct.

Thankfully, the drug made the insertion only a light stinging, but Will still squirms, grunting in pain and discomfort. To prevent any mishaps, Hannibal pushes his head back into the chair for stability, popping the eye out more as he does so. Will whimpers soft nos at the halfway point, nausea sweeping over him as his vision grows further distorted and spotty. With a bit more pressure, it goes black. He groans at the severed nerve, groping for Hannibal without the desire or means to fight back. The hands find his torso, clasp at the fabric. Mussing the flat-tucked shirt.

The eye is extracted. Hannibal places it in the bowl, but suddenly the ingredient wasn’t the focus or purpose. Because there was Will: blood and fluid dripping from beneath his flattened eyelid, wincing and squirming and twitching and whispering “no no no no,” pulling Hannibal’s shirt loose, drooling (albeit unconsciously), desperate for reassurance. Hannibal clears his throat again, mutters something in his mother tongue. As he stands with the bowl, Will looks up at him with the remaining eye, beautiful tears threatening the red rim.

Hannibal abandons the bowl on the wooden table behind him. Turns, takes Will’s destroyed face in his hands, kisses him deeply.

Will’s chest stiffens for a moment, a whimper of doubt before the overflowing realization that this is what their relationship has been all along. Aching, he lets Hannibal invade him. Every inch of him. The remainder of Hannibal’s shirt comes loose from beneath the belt, Will’s fists full of linen.

Hannibal does invade. His tongue sweeps through Will’s mouth well-deservedly, his hand tugs at curls, his thumb, at the last moment, slips into Will’s empty socket. The wet, red fleshiness of it. How Will cries out at the fingernail.

Hannibal pulls away first, a flicker of guilt flashing past his eyes. A flicker of inspiration.

Will, in spite of himself, leans forward again. Desperate.

Hannibal pushes him back down, a simple light tap of two fingers knocking him backward. The drug should last for at least a few more minutes.

At least.

Another sentence under his breath, foreign words lilting in the air like an apology. Hannibal goes for his belt.

Will’s lips try to articulate whatever feeling courses through him right now, but the drug feels like a lobotomy. Instead, he grips the leather arms of the couch again, as if the grapefruit spoon would return.

Instead, there was  _ Hannibal,  _ eyes black and near closed with impossible desire. Will, drunk on propofol, can’t help but stare downward. His understanding of social code is beyond blurred, but also, who’s to tell him what he can or cannot do? He was the one permanently damaged. About to become significantly more permanently damaged.

Hannibal takes Will’s chin in his hand, admiring the deeply enamored and deeply damaged expression he wears. His cock in his other hand. If anyone could make Hannibal lose control, it was Will. Even before this snap of realization, that was the truth.

Hannibal suddenly tugs Will forward, careful not to hurt him further, but forcing him off the chair and onto the ground. On his knees. For a moment, Hannibal looks down at him, finding difficulty in articulating all the complicated feelings flooding his mind. Controlling his actions. He settles with a somber, “Sorry, Will. I’ll be gentle.” Devastatingly so.

Will, watching Hannibal doe-eyed (singular), is challenged by sentence at first. Because, well,  _ of course _ he wanted Hannibal. Like this. There was nothing to be sorry about. But when he feels the pressure on his cranium, the anesthetic glow begins to fade. He glances to the left and there was Hannibal’s shaft, a slow hiss escaping Hannibal’s lips as he presses in, velvet that makes Will want to scream. He almost says “wrong hole” jokingly and out of despair until Hannibal’s eyes meet his, deliberately. Pulling his curls forward. “Hannibal…” he cries out gingerly, fear wallowing in his stomach as he feels the shell disappear beneath his eyelids, the fluttering of his lashes, “Hannibal, I-I need another shot.” Not “stop.” Not “what the fuck is the matter with you; you’ll kill me.” Will takes his pant leg in his fist, “It wore off.” Another inch without hesitation. “Please..!”

“I’ll be gentle,” Hannibal repeats, shuddering as reaches the base at last. He looks at Will breathlessly, the way his unnecessary eyelids stretched around his girth, nearly splitting at the edges. Pretty eyelashes. Will’s remaining eye panicked and wet and begging. And glancing slightly to the side: Will’s tented slacks and shaking knees. His hand curled around Hannibal’s calf, desperate. “And quick.”

Will, now fully conscious, cries out as Hannibal retreats, pulling out somehow hurting more than putting it in, as stab wounds do.

Yet, those desperate pleas to stop only made Hannibal want more, only made his hips buck a lot less gently than he would like. And the rougher he is, the more Will screams. And the more Will screams, the rougher he gets. The cycle continues, viciously. It never stops.

Will also, as secret as his previous excitement, finds terrible joy in this. It’s a brand of eroticism he never thought was possible, nevermind his reality. Feeling Hannibal’s hips rut up again the edges of his skull, as far as they could go without breaking him. At some point, Will finds himself leaning into it, assisting in his own demise. Relishing in it.

Hannibal committed to his promise and came quick, thrusting into Will’s skull with a throaty grunt. And then, a low, deadly moan fights past his lips. He shuts his eyes, indulging in Will’s curls, pulling at the ends gently, carefully.

Will, below him, sobs. 

After his orgasm expired and turned rotten, Hannibal looks down. He inhales sharply at the sight that he once marveled at, pulling out abruptly.

Will groans in protest, both at the suddenness and the absence. Without Hannibal’s organ nor his own, he feels truly empty. His head dips down and Hannibal’s cum drips down his cheek. He shudders at the gradual awareness of his own hardness, his own heartbeat. The innuendo he first thought of hearing the “missing ingredient.” There are better ways to thicken stew.

Hannibal covers his mouth, trying to pick between shame and splendor, desperately trying to sort out his mind before the rash decision makes itself again. As Will crumbles to the ground (either tragically horny, tragically damaged, or both), Hannibal tidies himself, concealing his nudity and tucking the shirt flat again, although the wrinkles sour his eyes.

Yet there was Will, face dripping with unspeakable things. He doesn’t have a spiteful word to say.

Hannibal dips to his knees, scoops him up, and presses a kiss to his forehead. Will responds with an exhausted whine.

An eyeball sits in a dish, waiting to become broth.

Will waits in the dining room, eye socket bandaged tightly with gauze and medical tape. From the kitchen, scents of onion, butter, garlic, and fresh, savory oysters waft in, and the low bubbling and stirring of stew. His stomach claws at him like a wolf to a rabbit.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://juroguro.tumblr.com/)


End file.
